The Sinner, Her Savior
by LadyOfTruths
Summary: How far would you go to fulfill a friend's final request?
1. An Act of God

# Dear Reader, A small warning for those with fragile hearts and minds, this work contains angst. Yes, my name is LoT and I'm an angst-o-holic. It all started off as an idea, and has progressed to fic-stage. I expect it to be short and appreciate all opinions and comments. Enjoy…

The Sinner, Her Savoir

-LadyOfTruths

A bitter cold breeze swept over Arlington National Cemetery, encouraging a group of dead and dying leaves to dance together with the empty air. In the far-eastern corner of the autumn tinged burial ground, a ceremony is in procession, twenty-one-guns paused in salute by the firing party.

Ardelia Mapp held wrapped arms tightly around her body as she watched the casket team bring forth the darkly polished coffin. She fought back the urge to fall to her knees with sudden absolute weakness, the white roses and bright flag draped over the top of painted black timber served as a sufficient distraction. She didn't want to picture the cold body at rest inside. Seventy-two hours after the death of Special Agent Clarice Starling, Ardelia still pictured her at home, in her old duplex, cleaning the shelves and laughing to herself.

Because three days had passed since her death, the funeral was well attended. Ardelia stood at the front, making an effort to push past the suits that attended out of obligation and the press looking to make the best end to a story they loved. In the crowd of fifty-something, she was the closest thing to family, no direct bloodlines, no grieving husband, and no teary-eyed children. Though it was not surprising, Ardelia felt awful, it was the wrong way to depart this life.

"Clarice Starling was a first-rate agent of the Bureau. Her friends and colleagues respected her courage, strength and loyalty greatly. She will not be forgotten"

Ardelia snorted. The father had no idea and his service was a joke. Clarice had been a tarnished agent of the Bureau. Her colleges despised everything about her, and probably came solely to certify her demise. She would be forgotten as soon as they could clear out her office.

"Like any trained agent, Clarice risked her life every day in the line of duty. Her accidental death should be honoured, and for us, the public she fought to protect, her fate should be viewed as admirable."

In accordance with the faith stated on her employment records, Starling's service provided general honours with a Lutheran touch. There was no family to argue with, and even though she was admittedly unreligious, a funeral without the mention of God felt like damnation. Ardelia hoped that in her final moments, Starling had turned to something and found a glimmer of hope worth trading her life for.In her years as a special agent, Ardelia had always stepped out with a measure of faith in her pocket, to do so without any belief in hope was reckless and lacking worth. When she had handed in her resignation two years ago, Clarice had been the first to congratulate her saying "I wish I had the guts to do it myself".The problem was, Ardelia thought, she had too much guts and she never would've allowed herself to leave.

"…thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven…"

She wondered, if she had tried harder to convince Clarice to leave, would she be alive right now? She could be standing next to her, and this could be someone else's funeral. But she isn't, and this was hers. Clarice Starling was as dead as her father. She had even died for the same cause. Ardelia was given a copy of the report, describing how and why the situation eventuated. Clarice had gone into the raid first, cocked and vested, leading four other agents through a narrow suburban home. Denis Husker, formerly known and Nev Stalone, convicted rapist and paedophile, should not have been expecting them. Everything should have run routine-smooth; Nev's latest arrest, his new wife and child taken into custody and the 25 pounds of methamphetamine bagged as evidence. Alas, nothing went as planned. Nev and three other men were packing, two of them positioned on the stairs, their 9-millimetre Berettas angled facing the door, and Nev and another waiting in the kitchen with his wife and child, strapped with explosives. Clarice hadn't made it past the entryway, the double action semi-automatic pistols shot into her vested chest and shoulders, giving fair warning to the agents behind her. More bullets were fired, but no one else was shot.

"For the Kingdom, the power and the glory are yours, now and forever"

The report also included time of death; the paramedics arrived in time to get her pale body into the ambulance and hooked up to a drip. By that time, one of the shots had logged itself into bone, sending chips and fragments flying into her heart. So much for the vest! They said she had been strong up until the end, closing her eyes with a slight, cheerless smile… 

Ardelia fought back another sob; her chest heaving in uncontrollable fits.

Amen.

Her murky brown eyes darted from the coffin descending into the ground to the suits standing in the crowd. She wanted to yell and scream and pull their shiny unless badges off their damn uniforms. She had to force her shaking fists into her pockets before she threw them about without the slightest care. Grief was slowly seeping into rage, and she desperately needed to vent it.

The firing of the guns came as a shock and a relief. Something so piercing loud, quick and deliberate summed up her fury. She looked into the clear morning sky, as if to watch the bullets fly into space. And then the tears came, no longer willing to remain leashed and obedient.A warm, wet path made its way over the curves of her cheeks; she could taste the saltiness. Sadness always seemed more authentic when you could taste your own tears. 

After that, the ceremony was over within a few minutes. The suits gathered, in all probability to sneak in the odd victorious glance, and the media started their on-scene promos.Ardelia made her way through the crowd, heading back towards her car. Tears distorted her vision, but she looked straight ahead, ignoring the consoling looks from those who passed her.Beneath her leather boots, shells from several bullets crunched. She wanted get keep one, but found that she could not stop to bend down, a sea of white headstones was repelling her further and further from Clarice Starling's gravesite.

"Miss Mapp, I'm Kara Millen from the Washington Post. Would you be able to spare me…"

"I'll spare you your breath. I'm not interested." She hadn't heard the woman sneak up behind her; her chilled tone expressed her indifference and frustration.

"It'll only take a few minutes. I really want this story presented with as much truth and respect as possible"

Reporters haven't laboured a days worth of respect in their lives, Ardelia thought before she replied "And I'd really like my best friend back. Now please, fuck off!" 

Kara Millen bit the dust as the Ardelia Mapp fasted her pace towards the exit. Her hand-held tape recorder sat limp and wasted in her extended palm.

~*~*~

Clarice's house, their old duplex, was lonely. There were little belongings on display, though nothing could ease the aloof and suppressive atmosphere Starling had created. An empty coffee cup sat upside-down in the dish drainer next to a shot glass and plate. The rooms had been repeatedly cleaned; the stench of bleach and disinfectants hung heavily in the air. Effectively Starling had cleaned herself out of her home, tenants could move in tomorrow and not feel as though they were imposing on the past memories that only the plain sturdy walls had witnessed. 

With a sigh, Ardelia moved into the bedroom. She remembered Clarice in their academy days; she'd never been one for tidiness or fuss. The remnants of her life now would suggest something of opposing nature. Her dresser was almost bare, no photo frames, trophies or papers, and the clothes in her closet had been organised into color groups.It's entirety screamed boredom and isolation. The only object out of place was the brown cardboard box that sat unsympathetically on her bed. Most of the contents were from work, though there was a photo album and legal papers resting on the top. Clarice had appointed her best and only friend as testator of her will. Ironically, most of her things were left to Ardelia's name, so contacting beneficiaries required minimal effort.

In Clarice Starling's bedroom, Ardelia sat on the springy mattress, running her dark hands over the ivory calico-woven quilt. Next to the box was a file which contained her 'to-do' list, she expected it to be short. As she lifted the papers, two notes simultaneously fell onto her lap. The top one read: Ardelia

The envelope was small in comparison to the grand and daunting legal notes with harsh bold headers. She sat a moment, fingering the delicate stationary; it looked and smelt like recycled paper and rose petals.

A few scattered tears fell onto the paper and smudged the black ink as she eased out the folded letter inside. As she read, her breath remained hitched at the base of her throat. The words of a dead person are demanding and sophisticated, she felt herself compelled to read. Ardelia could feel the blood rushing through her temples, muscles twisted knots in her stomach as she came to the end. Clarice had signed at the bottom of the note, running each of the letters in her name together in a fine cursive.She blinked a moment, in hopes of defying time. She had not been ready for Clarice's final request.

Placing the letter back in the envelope, she sat up straight, reaching for the second letter. She sucked in another deep breath and opened her eyes to look at the envelope. She had used the same stationary, yet something seemed different. It smelt sweeter and appeared to hold more sentiment. If letters had auras, she was sure this one was ringing with tension. 

In the middle of the envelope, Clarice's pen had run a fine smooth course along the letters of one extremely familiar name: Dr. Hannibal Lecter.

To be continued…


	2. Lace Ambiguities

_A/N: It seems as though the system is out the get me…again. Please excuse the ghastly formatting. I tried everything; alas I seem to have a chapter full of scattered italics (On the upside, the author's note it back to the right size). Hopefully it won't be too distracting. Enjoy, and be sure to tell me what you think._ _Chapter Two_

Two days had passed since the funeral, and in that time Ardelia had not returned to Clarice's room. The letter sat where she had dropped it, devilishly innocent atop of her bed, silently screaming to be touched, read, or better yet, burnt. Just having it the house felt like an omen. She couldn't think clearly within the very same walls that concealed Starlings secret. Because it had to be a secret, didn't it? Hannibal Lecter was not a subject open for discussion between the friends, _ever_. If Ardelia mentioned anything in remote relation to the murderer, Clarice would crawl into her shell, deflecting and evading anyone or anything that wished to aid her in fighting her monsters.

Mapp rested on the front porch of the duplex, facing the normality of lives that continued to pass unfazed by the absence of their virtuous neighbour. Children were riding their bikes and laughing away their naive happiness, business people returned home from their long days ready to settle into the comforts of domesticity for the evening, and the lovers snuggling in their living rooms anticipating the delivery of another flawless evening. Essentially, everything was just as it was before.

Two years ago Ardelia had decided to leave an empty life and settle down with a new job and a new man. Watching the orbit of lives in Clarice's street made her think about her happiness; the joy that Clarice never had, and now would never know.  

On her lap sat the letter which she had read a dozen times over; Clarice's request, final goodbye, and her last chance at redemption.    She read it again, knowing each word before her eyes ran over them.

_Dearest Ardelia,_

_Before I write or your read anymore, I want you to know that I love you. You were the one true friend who turned your back on the world to save me, and I owe you everything I ever had for your friendship. Thank you._

I'm aware that if you found this letter, I am well and truly dead. Please don't be upset, we shared some of my greatest years, and that's enough. Besides, all things end, don't they? You, of all people I know, deserve happiness and even though I won't be around anymore, I know you'll be strong. I'm counting on it.

_I have left the majority of my belongings to you. There's not a lot.  I suppose I always left it to you to make our house a home. One of my savings funds will be shifted to the Lutheran Home account in Bozeman. I assume, with your consent, the banks will sort it out without a great deal of hassle. _

How odd it seems to be judging the sum of my life. I may as well be a barrister, twisting my past and formatting my success, attempting to prove the worth of my own existence. I feel that perhaps I have failed. Life, as it is now, seems trivial, the job, the bills, the belongings. What of this luggage? Can I take with me? No. I can't even scrap together a few memories of what I had. 

All this time to reflect, Ardelia, and it's making me depressed. I feel as though I took things from you and hardly made and effort to return. I stole moments of your happiness, you gave me good advice and offered all the love you had, and what could I offer you? Not much affection, little advice and not nearly enough of my happiness. Now though, I have one final favor to ask, and its conclusion will surely bring the happiness I exhausted a lifetime trying to ignore.

In this box, along with the will is another letter. I ask you to deliver it, in person, to the addressed recipient. I know that if I were sitting next to you right now, you'd argue. You'd tell me that this was insane and wrong. But, I'm not there, and I need you to do this, more than anything.

The party in question lives out of town, but I suspect he will have heard the news by now. He'll know something is coming. A final goodbye, if you will.

Place this in the agony column if the Times, Herald-Tribune and the China Mail:

**A. A. Aaron-**

**Her faithful follower, the pigeon has come to fall. **

**An exchange must be made, hand-to-hand.**

**The friend.**

There is no trouble lurking on the horizon, I assure you. I would not put you in such a position. No one will be looking; the prey they sought has been taken care of. Trust me, they can't hurt you and neither will the recipient. He will know where to look.

It is with this finial request that I can give something back. I think it may be the worth my entire existence. Although I cannot force you, I know you will do what you feel is right.

Thank you for everything. Take care of yourself, my dearest friend.

I love you. Goodbye.

Clarice.

Ardelia's chest was swelling, or was the her vision? Each time she read the last few paragraphs she fought off the urge to churn out the contents of her stomach. Her shoulders felt heavy. How could Starling ask her to do such a thing? It was illegal; against every principal the FBI had punched into her. 

Dread was the word that came to mind. Like the note on the piano hanging in the air, Ardelia could not rid of the emotion that devoured her.  Would contacting Hannibal Lecter free her of this, she wondered. If she fulfilled this favour, could she find peace in knowing that Clarice _would_ have been happy? If it wasn't enough, she'd never forgive herself. She was no longer an FBI agent, but that didn't change the fact that she remained a dutiful citizen. One who had spent many of her years believing that the only good place for a criminal was a cell. 

With her head buried in a grave of thoughts, Ardelia did not see the figure of a man ascending the stairs beside her. It was not until a thick wrist tapped on her shoulder that she realised she had company.

"Miss Mapp?" Clint Pearsall squatted on his knees to level himself out with the dark woman's cowering form.

Through her curly brown hair she looked up, not bothering to sit straighter in her chair. There was no reason; he was no longer her superior.

"Clint." She mumbled his first name into her clasped hands with surprise. It stunk with informality, yet he didn't express disapproval. What would be the point?

"How are you holding up?" Pearsall rubbed his knees, well aware that age and flexibility would never make a friendly bond in his lifetime.

Ardelia looked straight at him then.  He immediately took her hollow eyes outlined with dark droopy circles. Mapp had always been conservative in dress and appearance; he was unaccustomed to seeing her in such a state. He watched her stash something away in her pocket before wiping away the remaining tears crusting at the corner crevices of her eyes.

"What're you doing here?" She picked at the plum polish on her nails.

Pearsall gently shifted a box into her acute-angled vision. "More things from her office. Mostly paperwork, old case files." He paused a moment. "Lecter junk."

She cringed at the name, the man and the pinnacle of her current circumstance. 

"What do you expect me to do with it?" She eyed the box. Similar to the one sitting on Clarice's bed, filled with wearisome bureaucratic bullshit

" I..." He rolled back onto his heels, dispersing his bodyweight. "They had no place where they were. The stuff in here isn't helpful to any present or pending investigation. Most likely it would have been sold on _e-bay_ by some nosy get-ahead. Clarice wouldn't have wanted that." His tone and manner was genuine.

She looked up to the aging fifty-something man in his dark suit and pinstriped tie. In all of his profession, he was visibly shaken.  A frown looked foreign on a high-ranking FBI official's face. Ardelia was pleased.

"I'm sorry. You're right." She patted her hand on his shoulder, giving him a reassuring smile. Her lips whitened with the strain.

Pearsall's eyes dropped to the floor in attempt to find something appropriate to say. He had intended to keep his visit brief. After all, a boss really has no place grieving in the house of his employee. The simple fact was he liked Starling and that was hard for him to express to the critical eye.

"Can I get you a coffee?" Ardelia shifted and stood. The creak of the old bamboo chair distracted his attentions for a moment.

"I should be heading back to DC. I have meetings…" He didn't have time to craft a complete excuse.

"Please." A note of desperation rises within her whisper.

He nodded and followed her into the quite duplex. As soon breathed in the stilled air mental images of Starling's body flashed to the front of his eyes. Her home smelt like the morgue where he had been called down to identify her body. No one else would know the difference, except Ardelia the passed Jack Crawford, and perhaps Hannibal Lecter. But he didn't want for Ardelia to see Starling in her death mess, and neither Crawford nor Lecter were available for comment. Pearsall had to wonder though; how would the notorious cannibal react if he had seen Clarice Starling, his number one crush, pale and lifeless on the surgical slab?

The images began to fade as the aroma of the coffee took dominance over the sterile detergent.

"Thanks for bringing them over." Ardelia busied herself in the kitchen. "Black with sugar?"

"Cream too, if you've got it." He dropped the box on a nearby couch and made his way over to the set table in the middle of the room. To his knowledge, Starling was never a spiritual person. He wondered if Ardelia had changed the arrangement of her furniture. _Feng Shui_ seemed more like her thing.

"Yes." She realised that she'd never held such a trivial conversation with this man before. But he was playing along, and she was appreciative of the company. Perhaps they both were.

"I had some trouble getting that box through the front door at Quantico. The general consensus is that whatever remained of Lecter died with Starling. Like his capture was her secret, a lost riddle." He directed his voice into the polished tabletop. 

"I'm glad you came. It's good to have company. This place reeks of memories I'd just as soon be distracted from." She wanted to avoid discussing Lecter.

Ardelia brought two cups of steaming coffee over to the table and sat across from Pearsall.  His face look as trite as the bland walls behind him; washed and worn down to their most basic state.

"Clarice was a good woman and a fine agent. She'd appreciate all that you've done." He grasped the cup with both hands, tentatively sipping and blowing off the steam.  

"She only ever got half as far as she should have." Pearsall was the wrong man to be directing her angers at, she knew. But the rage was clawing her internally, demanding an attack on any victim just to find some release. 

 "I know." Such a topic would likely lead to him stomping on eggshells, there was little that could be said.

"She put her life into the Bureau, Clint." Tears threatened to distract her once again. " Don't tell me you were incapable of a favour. You could have done something. Jump out squads? Christ! You knew she was better than that." She threw more coffee down her throat hoping to scald her tongue.

"Ardelia…don't" Pearsall took a deep breath, watching the crumble of a woman on the opposing side of the table. "Neither of us could say anything at this moment that would made a difference." His sincerity was legitimate. 

_~ Besides, all things end, don't they? ~_

Anyone who has ever lost a friend, a lover, or even a worthy foe knows what it feels like to reach wits end. Ardelia's body was buzzing with nerves. A wave of anxiety progressed in an upward motion from her stomach to her ears. 

_~ I know you will do what you feel is right ~_

It became too much. Her porcelain cup hit the table with a loud 'clink' as she rose. There was madness in her eyes, a dazzling light at the very end of her spark. Somewhere between a rock and a hard place would be a welcome comfort, she thought.  She had to take action. Anything would be better than this.

"I've have to show you something" She stook blinking a moment before retreating.

"What is it?" Clint Pearsall inquired.

"A problem." He barely made out her reply as her rickety shadow disappeared into Starling's bedroom. 


End file.
